“I’m sorry, Abby. I just want to help. I don’t want to see you hurt even more.” She sighed, pushing her frizzing hair out of her face. The room was very warm now, sticky with steam. “The press caught your altercation with him. It’s on the news. They’re making fun of you, saying that the poor little preacher girl doesn’t understand that the big bad city boy played her. Abby, you’re making this worse by going to him. You have to stay away or this will never end. The paparazzi are like a flock of rabid pigeons and you’re feeding them.” Her tone had changed from chastising to pleading.
I nodded, “You’re right about that. I won’t do it again, but I can’t sign the papers either.”
“Take a shower Abby. Get warm, and hope to God that you didn’t catch pneumonia. I’ll heat up some soup for you.” She turned and left.
Wiping the steam from the mirror, I looked at my face in the glass. My auburn hair was plastered to my head. Thick black lines smudged under my eyes and my skin had developed a corpse-like pallor. I watched my face as the steam turned the mirror white once again. Resolve building in my sleep-deprived mind, I stood in the shower wondering who hated Jack with such venom.
After a hellish night of no sleep, I pulled on my own sweats. I sat at the counter with Kate sipping soup. The rain continued to beat against the glass outside. The only perk was that there were fewer cameras today. “While I was sitting outside, I was thinking about something.” She glanced at me, and I continued after sipping the scalding liquid. “Everyone was implicated—Gus, too.”
Kate nodded, reaching for a paper, flipping through it. Her finger trailed down a list of names implicated in the scandal. Finally she said, “Yeah, Gus Peck was implicated, too. It doesn’t mention if he was arrested or not. It looks like he pled out also, which damns Jack even more.”
Looking at the soup, I stirred it with my spoon. It felt like a thought was there, something major, and just out of reach. My waterlogged brain skirted the idea last night—it’s something about the arrests—something that’s off. Or missing. I wondered, thinking out loud, hoping it would make sense at some point, “And everyone thought it was me, because all this crap started when I arrived.”
Kate nodded, “Yeah, but Abby, they know you didn’t do it. If Jack’s innocent,”
I cut her off, stating it as a fact, “He is innocent.”
“Fine. He is innocent. If that’s the case, then someone played you guys. They watched you, and made sure they had everything they needed to string both of you up.” She sipped from her coffee cup, “And you have no idea who it is?”
Shaking my head, I replied, “Belinda is the only person that seemed to have enough venom for Jack, but she didn’t have a key. And unless she was working with someone, I don’t see how this happened.” Staring, swirling my spoon in my soup I muttered, “Time. The time is important.” I was lost in thought, talking out loud. Kate leaned on the counter, looking at me. “Me, Belinda, the interviews, the sales girl, the assistant.” When I said it, the thought sparked into a flame. “The assistant. Kate, was Emily arrested?”
Kate reached for the paper again, her finger running down the list of names. Shaking her head, she said, “No. There’s no one on this list with that name.” Lowering the paper she asked, “Maybe she pled out?”
I shook my head, “No, the cop in the suit—the police chief—said that they would make examples of anyone who didn’t cooperate. He said they couldn’t sweep this under the rug and deal with it quietly because the press already latched on. That’s why Jack and I, and everyone else, were all arrested publically. He made a big deal about the public part. If Emily was implicated, her name would be on that list.”
Kate dropped the paper, turning toward me on her seat, “So what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that everyone has been keeping an eye on the wrong girl.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
After some research a la Google, I found that Emily was still on Long Island. She didn’t have a husband, well, not one that was living, and she didn’t move.
“Well, strike one against Emily,” Kate said, reading the screen over my shoulder. “Her husband died a while ago too. Even if she deluded herself, twenty years is a long time to keep the facade up.” She glanced down at me, “So what are you thinking?”
Staring at the screen, I shrugged, “I have no idea. She seemed nice.” I turned to Kate, draping my arm over the back of the chair, “She was there the first day I assisted Jack. Thinking about it, she seemed protective of him. She told me how important it was to keep an eye on Jack. That one word could bring his career crashing down.”
“So? That doesn’t mean she’s the evil bitch that orchestrated this whole thing. What she said was true. Everyone in the art world knows Jonathan Gray and his erotic paintings. The thing that made them worth millions was his reputation. He was abstinent for so long that people thought he was gay.”
“What?” my eyes flew open. It felt like my eyeballs were going to roll out of my head. Kate didn’t seem to realize what she said.
Shrugging, she answered, “Everybody knows that, Abby. Jack didn’t date anyone, which is why people were suspicious of him. He had very few relationships over the years. We were chomping at the bit, waiting for him to get caught with his pants down. No one is that good.”
I stared blankly ahead. As she spoke, Jack’s paintings appeared in my mind, one by one. The longing, the loneliness, the haunted sensation of being lost. I rubbed my hands over my eyes, “Kate. His paintings... it’s all in his paintings. He’s really been alone all this time? He said he had a relationship with Belinda, though.”
Kate shrugged, “It wasn’t long enough for the press to pick up on it. Abby, we’re getting off track. I realize this probably looks very romantic to you, but it’s a feeding frenzy for the press. That’s why they sunk their teeth into him—he’s different, damaged, and the perfect way to boost ratings. They’ll run with this till Doomsday if he goes to trial. If you sign those papers, Phil can plead him out.”
“Where’d you hear that?” I asked. Phil didn’t say that while he was here.
“The TV. Abby, the longer you hold out, the worse this gets. He told you to sign. Are you seriously going to keep this going?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m not.” Turning back to the computer, I hit print. Emily’s address and phone number were on a sheet of paper within seconds. “I’m going to check this out. Call Phil for me? Tell him I’ll drop the papers by later tonight.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Kate thought I was insane, and told me so, but I had a feeling about this. Emily wasn’t just an old lady. She lied like a sociopath. There wasn’t a trace of remorse or an indication of anything when she spoke to me. She felt like the awesome aunt I never had. I looked at the address and then up at Emily’s front door. She lived in a little cape, cute as a button, on a street in Cutchogue. Stepping out of the car, I grabbed my purse and slid my iPhone into the plastic holder on my jeans. It was bulky and messed with the outfit, but I didn’t want the phone in my purse.
Before I knocked on the door, it swung open, “Abby, honey!” She smiled widely, gesturing me inside. “Come on in. It’s so nice to see you.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Emily.” Her house looked picture perfect. It was classic old lady, doilies and all. “I thought you were moving? I was so glad when I realized that you were still here.” I tried to sound sweet, and wasn’t sure how I was doing. I was a horrible liar.
She nodded, and I followed her into the living room. “Well, you know men. They say one thing, then do another.” She turned suddenly, her fingers on her lips like she said something she shouldn’t have. “I’m sorry, dear. That was thoughtless of me.”
I shrugged it off, although the comment instantly made me think I was on the right trail since she was referring to husband again like he was alive and currently making decisions. A cold chill ran through me. I really hoped she wasn’t the Norman Bates type of crazy. “It’s all right. There isn’t much you can say that would upset me these days. The press has been horrible.” We sat at her oak table. She handed me a doily placemat.
“How about some tea, dear?”
I nodded, “Thank you very much.”
As she started the kettle and grabbed two ancient tea cups, she asked, “So, what brings you up here?”
Distracted, I noticed a painting on the wall. It was small, but it was clearly one of Jack’s. “I was hoping to speak to you about Jack, but Emily,” she turned hearing the question in my voice, following my finger pointing at the painting, “is that one of Jack’s?”
She laughed, nodding like a crazy old coot. “Yes, an early finger painting. Nothing more. Not worth anything. It’s just a memento he gave me before I left.” The painting was in a gold gilded frame. I wasn’t an art connoisseur, but I knew better than to think it was worthless, even now. She added, “Nothing like the painting he made of you, or so I hear.” She placed a tea cup in front of me. I picked up the bag and dipped it into the cup, watching the tea snake through the steaming water.
I blushed slightly, “Oh, that. It’s nothing. He’s made so many paintings. I don’t see how that one would matter.” I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. Did she suspect me? Or did she think I was the innocent idiot the news made me out to be?
“Oh, honey!” she laughed, touching my hand. “Jack’s paintings are all monochromatic, didn’t you notice?” I shook my head like a moron. Duh, Abby no notice nothing. Wide-eyed, I looked at her over the top of my cup as I took a sip. I briefly wondered if she was crazy enough to poison me, but since she was drinking it too, I thought the tea was okay. “Well, that one is different. It’s the last in his collection, the only one in color, and the only one that feels—hopeful. One day that’ll fetch a pretty penny.”
